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Planes. Majima hates them at the best of times - even in first-class, where the only elbow to bump belongs to the young up-and-comer next to him. Bein’ so high up in the air just doesn’t feel right. Neither does wearin’ a shirt, after all these years of goin’ without. And ya gotta wait to get on the damn things, then to get off ‘em again. It’s a waste of time. And the way they bump and send their passengers tumbling at the slightest thing? Fuckin’ almost makes him regret however many drinks he’s managed to wheedle out of the attendant.
It’s a damn good thing she’s too scared to cut him off.
And that fuckin’ kid next to him? Asleep, of course. Young and dumb enough to try to match him drink for drink. Idiot’s gonna regret it in a couple of hours. His mouth hangs open, drool pooling in the corner and spilling out down his chin.
He really is a young one, this kid. He’s scrappy and too smart by half, a little like someone else unfortunate enough to catch Shimano’s attention. Difference is this kid hasn’t spent a year in the Hole - he’s still got that cocky attitude of untouchability that only a brat with two eyes can have.
“Show him the ropes,” Shimano had said, back at the office. “Show him what it takes to work your way up, and what happens if ya try to shit where ya eat. It’ll be a good lesson.”
The plane’s bound for Osaka, where they’re to find some fuckwit who thought it’d be a great idea to take some of Shimano’s shit. It’s a simple job that he’s done in a dozen other cities - find the scumbag, recover whatever’s been stolen, haul the scumbag back to Tokyo, throw ‘em in the Hole - though he’d rather drink his own piss for a year than set foot back in Sotenbori. Omi aside it’s not a place he wants to be spending any time.
But when Shimano says jump, he holds his tongue and jumps. Like a good dog. One that doesn’t bite the hand that feeds it.
Fuck, he could use a cigarette. Instead he gets to stew in a liquor induce haze, glaring at the little light forbidding him from smoking. He could probably just light up. The attendant already jumps a mile whenever he so much as shifts in his seat, she probably wouldn’t even peep if he pulled out a cigarette.
The other passengers would definitely raise a stink though. There’s a businessman across the way who’s been glaring at him the whole damn trip, just waiting for him to step a toe out of line. He’s got the pudgy face and sneer of a man who likes throwing his weight around just to prove he can, and a combination of alcohol and simmering rage is making Majima sorely wish this was a place where he could prove money don’t mean shit if ya ain’t got the fists to back it up.
He closes his eye and imagines the crunch the businessman’s head would make if he swung at it with a baseball bat. The image should be enough to calm him down. Usually. But his destination’s sitting at the back of his mind like a rotten sandwich at the back of a fridge. The longer he lets it sit the more the stench seeps through the seal in the door, and he’s so very ready to grab this rancid snack of a trip and toss it in the garbage.
Find scumbag. Retrieve stolen shit. Bring scumbag back to Tokyo. Throw ‘em in the Hole. Provided the idiots bringing the cars down don’t get held up anywhere he only has to spend six or seven hours in the city. In and out. It better be that easy or he’s gonna have to bust some fuckin’ heads.
By the time the wheels touch down on the tarmac he’s itching to have a weapon within his grasp - knife, baseball bat, crowbar, hell he’ll take a kettle at this point - and a quick taxi ride and a trip to a public restroom later he’s got a tanto shoved inside his jacket. The blade’s good quality - he’ll have to remember to thank Fei Hu later. It’ll be better if he doesn’t have to whip it out but he’s not gonna say no to a tussle if some punk thinks they can ruin his day.
He takes a moment to peer at his reflection in the grubby mirror: lookin’ like shit, same as always. There’s that bloodshot eye starin’ back at him, still glassy from the booze, and his once carefully sculpted stubble is three days past scruffy. He slips his eye patch off and slides sunglasses into place, careful not to catch a glimpse of what’s left of the socket.
It’s almost funny how taking the eye patch off lets him hide in plain sight. As long as the scarring is obscured he could be almost anyone. The snakeskin jacket screams yakuza but he can’t bring himself to shed it, and hopefully he’s still got enough sway with whatever’s left of the Kijin Clan to talk his way out of any trouble. And besides, this way no one will recognise him as the mythical one-eyed ex-manager of The Grand. That guy had class; this one’s tacky as fuck.
When he’s done he steps back outside to collect the kid. Poor fuck’s glancing around like he expects to be jumped at any second.
“Oi, yer only gonna draw more attention if yer lookin’ like yer scared of ya own shadow,” Majima says, clapping him on the back. “Gotta act like ya belong.”
The kid swallows and nods. “Sure thing, boss.”
“What’s yer name again?”
His expression twists into one of complete disbelief, though he manages to keep himself from spitting out what he’s thinking - almost certainly ‘you forgot already?’ - and instead answers the question. “Kimura, sir.”
“Alright Kimura, you know what they say?”
“No?”
“You gotta act natural. Natural. So stop squarin’ yer shoulders and walk like ya usually do.”
“Thanks boss.”
“Ya can thank me by gettin’ to work. Remember the plan? Our contacts? Talk to ‘em, and if they don’t know you go askin’ around. You take this side of the river and I’ll take the other side.”
“Got it, boss.”
Majima starts to walk away, and he gets a few steps before he looks over his shoulder and finds the kid still rooted to the spot.
“What’re ya standin’ around for? Hop to it!”
“Yes, boss!” The kid still looks panicked, but he takes off jogging down the street.
He’ll be fine. Probably. At least now Majima’s got a couple of hours until he has to babysit again.
Most of his contacts are ones that remember him from a few years ago - old friends of Lee with connections to the underground. The third person he talks to knows who he’s lookin’ for and where the guy’s stayin’ and, after scopin’ it out a bit, he confirms that the guy is in fact still there. It’s a shitty little hovel of an apartment above Utahime, the windows covered up with trash bags.
“He only comes out at night. My friend lives across from him - will keep an eye out. Page you if he leaves,” the contact tells him in his fractured Japanese, gesturing at the blacked out windows.
“Guess the mornin’ flight was worth gettin’ up for,” he says around his cigarette.
That’s good enough, and now he’s got two hours to kill before he has to meet the kid back at the giant crab. Might as well spend it checkin’ in on people.
His first stop is the corner of the backstreet Sunshine sits on. It’s too early for the club to be open and it sits dormant, the sign above the door no doubt waiting for evening so it can spring back to neon life.
The door opens and he withdraws around the corner. Deep breaths. They ain’t gonna see him, and even if they did they’re not gonna recognise him. He’s not the fancy bastard he was last time he was here.
When he summons the courage to peek around the corner he finds Youda setting up a stepladder just beside the door. He’s got a rag in one hand and a spray bottle in the other, and once he’s satisfied the stepladder is on steady footing he climbs up and begins polishing the sign.
There’s more gray in his hair now - enough that Majima can see it even at this distance - and he’s a little thinner, his clothes hanging off him more than they ever did before. Maybe the stress of managing the club alone is getting to him? Nah, can’t be that. The girls would look out for him.
If they’re still here.
He stalks away before the thought can settle in his mind. Doesn’t matter. They ain’t his problem, haven’t been for years. He ain’t gonna barge into their lives again.
His next stop is a quick jaunt over the river to the arcade. There’s no little girl standin’ outside starin’ wistfully at the UFO catcher. Her absence brings him too close to sentimental for his liking, so he swings by a food cart before he can dwell on it. That just brings him right back to nostalgia when he manages to get his hands on some kushikatsu without the obatarian butting in. It’s like he doesn’t know this city at all anymore.
He lets his feet take him back to the other side of the river. The streets are much the same as a few years ago, but every once in awhile a shiny new shopfront looms out above its grubby neighbours. New cabaret clubs have replaced the old ones. The telephone club is gone. At least Don Quixote is still here. He pauses just outside to listen to the familiar jingle, a song that conjures up memories of midnight quests for instant noodles both here and in Kamurocho.
Eventually he loops back to the alleyways and down to the park. He’s half hoping to find Komaki in his usual spot under the tree, and he takes a long drag of his cigarette when he finds the old coot missing. Of course he’s not here. He’s probably still out looking for a real apprentice, searching for someone to be a true heir to the Komaki style.
Majima plonks himself down on a park bench. Maybe the old bastard will find a proper successor. That’d be fun. Maybe he’s already found one and he’s training them up right now. Yeah, that’s a nice thought. He lets his gaze drift upwards to the sky. Maybe he’ll meet Komaki’s apprentice one day. Someone worthy of the title would surely prove entertaining. It’s been too long since he had a good scrap, one where he could really let loose.
His eye flutters closed in the warmth of the sunlight. He might have even dozed off, paying no mind as the park fills up with people out on their early afternoon walks. It’s a voice that snaps him back to attention.
“What a lovely baby, Tateyama-san!” some middle-aged lady exclaims. “Such adorable chubby cheeks!”
He raises his head. Osakan grannies are just as loud as he remembers, and this one even has the obligatory brightly coloured sweater to match. She lifts the baby in question right up to her face and presses a sloppy kiss to its forehead. The poor kid grimaces. He finds himself nodding – yup, been there, kid.
The younger woman with her back to him must be the mother because she bows her head before taking the baby back, dabbing stray lipstick from its hairline.
“Are you getting enough sleep, dear?” the older woman continues. “I know that husband of yours is busy but you really do need your rest.”
The mother shakes her head. “Thank you for your concern.” She says something else and they both laugh, but he doesn’t hear it.
He’d know that voice anywhere.
The baby fusses, and Makoto turns just enough that he can see her face. She looks exactly as he remembers, though her voice is happier than it ever was during their time together. She bounces her baby on her hip and smiles, chattering away with the woman next to her.
He tries not to focus on the baby, but his eyes go there anyway. It’s a pudgy thing. It gurgles as it fiddles with the sleeve of its mother’s shirt, and when it turns to look at him he recognises the round shape of its face.
Makoto catches the baby’s hand mid-tug and gives it a little shake. The creases around her eyes are a little deeper, crinkling when she grins. Her dark hair catches the sunshine. She’s still every bit as beautiful, and far less broken. There’s no trace of those scars in her laughter, no hint of the hell she’s seen.
His chest tightens as he watches her. She looks so normal. Her name is Tateyama now. And she’s normal. Her smile is wide and as bright as the sun. She’s a mother now. She got to be normal.
For a moment he lets himself fall back into a way of thinking he discarded years ago. She has that effect on him, even now. Especially now. Is her hair just as soft? Her hands? She can see now so she wouldn’t have to hold on to him when they walk around. He’d still hold her hand though. She’d make fun of him but he wouldn’t mind. If he had just one chance to hold it he’d never let go.
It’s enough that she can do that with someone else.
She shouldn’t even have to share a park with someone like him.
The thought is like a punch in the guts. There’s no way she’ll recognise him, especially without the eye patch, but just being this close is dangerous. He’s still yakuza. As long as he can keep his damn mouth shut she can keep being safe and happy and normal and he can do what he came to this city to do.
But he can’t help the way his eyes keep wandering back to her, how he traces her smile to carve it into his memory. Does her husband make her smile like that too? He damn well better. He better make sure he thanks her for every meal she cooks, that he buys her flowers, that he never forgets her birthday. He better go out to get takoyaki for her, even if it’s pouring rain, even if it’s the middle of a typhoon and his umbrella gets swept away. He better make sure she knows how precious she is, how loved she is. He better tell her every fucking day.
He gets halfway through opening his mouth before he bites his tongue.
It would be so easy to call her name. So easy. He could apologise for disappearin’ on her. She’d be happy to know he’s still alive. They’d get lunch and he’d bounce the lil scamp on his knee while they talked about the last few years. He’d tell her how he never forgot her. Maybe she’d even smile at him the way she’s smiling at that old lady.
But what if she doesn’t want that? What if he’s just a reminder of the life she left behind? Shit, what if she does want to see him? What then? No, it’s his own baggage he needs to worry about. He ain’t gonna let her so much as brush up against this filth.
This is enough. It’s enough. What would calling out to her change? She’s got a kid now – a family – and he’s just the same scum-of-the-earth yakuza dipshit he’s always been. He’s fucked up everything he ever touched. The only thing he got right was letting her go and here he is struggling to commit to that one good choice because even after all these years there’s still that fluttering in his chest and-
A tinny melody starts to play. The baby squeals in delight, swatting at the source of the sound with chubby fingers.
“Oh, two o’clock,” Makoto says, turning her attention to her wrist. “Time to go home for a nap.”
She still wears her watch.
His fists are clenched so tightly that his nails dig into the palms of his hands. He stops when he breaks the skin, wiping the blood off on his pants and cursing under his breath. At least the leather’s dark enough that it looks like any other stain.
It’s a small mercy that he has to go too. Kimura’ll be waitin’ under the crab, and it’d be poor form to be late when he’s supposed to be showin’ the kid the ropes.
He dusts himself off and takes one last glance at her. She’s settling the baby back into her pram, and the older woman fusses over them.
“That’s such a lovely song, Tateyama-san.”
“It is. It reminds me of a friend.”
He slips beyond earshot before he can hear the rest. Now he can count two good choices. She can keep livin’ her life, she never has to know how close he came to ruining it for her anew. Knowing she’s okay it enough.
Seeing her smile is enough.
Kimura’s already there when he reaches the crab, scuffing his feet against the ground. He stands up straight when he spots Majima stalking towards him through the crowd.
“Hey, boss!”
Majima scowls at him. “Yer not supposed to be on time ya idiot, yer makin’ me look bad.”
“S-sorry, boss.”
He shakes his head. They end up swapping info over okonomiyaki, since it’s Kimura’s first trip to Osaka. The kid watches the chef as he prepares their meal, eyes as wide as the frying pans on the stove.
He may not be wise to the ways of the world but the kid proves competent enough when it comes time to retrieve their mark. Majima barely has to raise a finger. Instead he focuses on ransacking the shitty apartment to find Shimano’s garbage. It turns out to be a folder full of Tojo safehouses, complete with addresses and photos, and now he realises why his bastard of a boss sent him when he could have sent any regular enforcer.
It’s always a fuckin’ power play with him.
Well, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters as long as he keeps being an obedient dog. He folds into the backseat of the car, winding the window down as soon as the door closes behind him. It’ll take longer to drive back than it did to fly, but at least he can smoke. And the trip wasn’t so bad in the end. In and out. Easy.
Shimano can play as many games as he likes. He can do anything as long as she’s out there, happy, living the best version of her life.
He hides his smile behind a cigarette.